


When Molly met Jim

by daniko



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 05:49:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/876339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daniko/pseuds/daniko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly and Jim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Molly met Jim

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to [knowmefirst](http://knowmefirst.tumblr.com), who took a look at this in record time, as a favour to a fellow Kloset member!

It began harmlessly enough: with a compliment and a late night coffee. Everything was different when one had the night shift. (Not that Molly actually did, she just stayed late more often than not.) It was akward enough that Molly had to believe it was actually happening. On their first date, Molly bumped into him in the hospital's cafeteria and spilled her latte all over his Ralph Lauren polo. (She had thought he was rich at first, but on their third date he had told her it was his parents who had money. She had no reason to believe this to be true when nothing else was.)

Molly had immediately offered to pay for the dry-cleaning and buy him coffee the next time he had the night shift as an apology and he had accepted. After that, it was ice-cream and, shortly thereafter, dinner. Molly would not deny it, she had fully prepared herself to ask if “you would care to come up for a cup of coffee” after he walked her home.

His response, however, had been perfect. “That's okay, I figured you'd want to take things slow,” he had said with a cocky wink, “and it's not I'm going anywhere.” Which ought to have been her first sign, really, but hindsight is twenty-twenty, as they say. At the time, Molly had mostly been delighted that he was behaving like a gentleman, even if it meant she was going to bed frustrated like always. Really, though, what bloke didn't take advantage of the opportunity to have a leg over?

Molly had been smitten, that was the problem. It was always hard not to compare every bloke she dated to Sherlock, but he had been such a stark contrast, sweet and considerate after one too many “Black, three sugars,” from Sherlock. Of course, after the gay comment from Sherlock, Molly had felt enlighted. She had always put blind faith in Sherlock's word and it had been ridiculously easy to believe he was too good to be true, because she had half-expected him to be, anyway. He had probably planned it that way. And then he had vanished, leaving Molly worried, but vindicated that she had been right.

Now, almost a year later, here he was. In an expensive suit, silk tie and heavy coat, his blood all over her table, his eyes empty. They had always looked empty, now that she thought about it, even when he was tickling her on her sofa, or snogging her in the broom's closet.

Dead. James Moriarty lay dead on her table and she found it very hard to connect this man to her not-quite-possibly-gay-boyfriend. It was hard to feel empathy, although she should, shouldn't she? He had been nice and a friend and now he lay dead in her mortuary and she could only think that she should have known. She should have seen something, if what they said about him was true. And, despite his short-comings, Molly would always believe in Sherlock Holmes. In fact, she thought with some amusement, Jim was just another favour she did for Sherlock, whatever else he might have been before. Sherlock was like that: you either hated him or you gave him everything.

That was the thought that sparked a memory. Molly remembered thinking at the time that it was funny, how could a man like Jim, so different from Sherlock, have his own John Watson, have the kind of loyalty only a man of Sherlock's charisma could possibly inspire. Molly wondered if he knew, wondered if it would be betraying Sherlock's trust to do it.

In the end, she decided it didn't matter, because Molly knew how to be in the sidelines for men like James Moriarty and Sherlock. (Molly's mum used to say, in the typical condescending manner of someone who learned psychology from pink magazines, that Molly was “a glutton for punishment”, that she “enjoyed falling for unattainable men”). And she knew what she had to do.

Molly took off her rubber gloves and moved to her office. She picked the telephone and dialed a familiar number. (Molly had an eidetic memory, she couldn't forget things like a phone number dialed over an year ago, when Jim asked her if she minded if a friend of his, who had just arrived in London, joined them for dinner. She hadn't. Minded, that is.) While she waited for the other side to pick up, she decided that, just because Jim wasn't very nice, didn't mean she couldn't be. And, besides, what was the worse it could happen?  
Finally, she heard the sound of the call being connected. “Hello, Sebastian Moran? This is Molly Hooper, I don't know if you remember me. . . .”

_~the end_


End file.
